


Four Seasons Make A Year

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Romance, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 09:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15361932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: Holmes and Watson, in the year following the return. Written for JWP #19 over at Watson's Woes.





	Four Seasons Make A Year

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Completely soppy in parts; angsty in others. This went all over the place. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.  
> Author's Notes: Written for the following prompt: Four Seasons. Give us a glimpse of all four seasons with Holmes and Watson. I wrote 2 drabbles and 2 221b ficlets for this; no, I'm not terribly sane.

Summer  
  
We were still new to each other, that summer of ’94. A strange thing to say about two men who had shared rooms for years, but it was true nonetheless. We had both changed greatly. Holmes last knew me as a married man with his own successful practice. I last knew Holmes as a highly-regarded consultant who seemed increasingly unable to practice moderation in his casework or his less healthy habits. We were more to each other now than we had ever been, but in some ways, we were almost strangers, with unknown experiences and unmapped scars reshaping us both.  
  
Autumn  
  
“You’ve been quiet this week, John.” Holmes’ voice sounded different with my head against his chest.   
  
It should not have been a surprise that a world-famous detective noticed my melancholy, but Holmes the partner was not always so astute. His concern tonight was plain.  
  
I had wanted to tell him. I would never have a better opportunity than this. “Your namesake would have turned three on Thursday.”  
  
Holmes shifted, cradling me so he could see my face, his grey eyes wide and piercing. “You had a son?”   
  
I had rarely seen him so shocked.  
  
“Sherlock John Watson. Mary and I never had any question about what we would name him, if he was a boy.” I mustered a smile. “I know you are not fond of your given name, but you were not there to object, and we both wanted to honour you. Mycroft seemed pleased enough about it.”  
  
“You asked him to stand as godfather.” It was a statement, not a question, though I knew he’d never known until now. A heartbeat, and then his arms tightened around me. “Did you know…?”  
  
“No. Not for certain. Not until after I returned.” Memories crowded in: of that time, of Mary, of our wonderful son and the brief happiness we’d had. Words failed me. Holmes held me silently as my eyes burned.  
  
  
Winter  
  
Christmastime was rarely a busy time for Holmes. Crime did not disappear, but it tended to be of the petty sort that held no interest for him.  
  
The increased availability of concert performances helped, and I did my humble best to provide other distractions. I remained all too aware of the dangers of the little morocco case.  
  
I thought I hid my concerns well enough, but Holmes noticed me looking at his desk one afternoon. He bristled and silently turned away.  
  
He saw no danger in it, and I refused to ask for promises he could not – would not – give.   
  
  
Spring  
  
The beginning of 1895 brought a host of new cases along with the icy weather. February brought an urgent, delicate case from Mycroft that taxed Holmes to his limit. March brought the first international case, and we spent more of the month outside of London than in it, returning just as April began.  
  
“I’ve made a reservation for us tonight at Simpsons,” I told Holmes on a particular April afternoon.   
  
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “I’ve no objection to a good meal, now that our latest little matter has come to a successful conclusion. I suppose this is your way of trying to redress some of the meals we missed.”  
  
“Even those we had were somewhat lacking in quality,” I remarked, remembering a few particular dishes. “And Mrs Hudson is out this evening. Simpson’s is better than a cold supper.”  
  
“True enough.” Holmes seemed to accept this at face value, but I noticed a slight frown as he reached for his violin. Instead of playing, he began the process of checking the strings, attending to the condition of his bow, and other maintenance.   
  
A few minutes later, the strings sounded an unmusical note. Holmes’ head jerked up, and he looked at my desk-calendar before staring at me.  
  
I smiled. I had hoped he would reason it out, with sufficient clues.  
  
Holmes _blushed_.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 19, 2018.


End file.
